Blooming
by noctuua
Summary: Moments in Clint and Natasha's relationship over the course of their partnership, from beginning to wherever they are now.
1. Third Time

The first time he encounters her doesn't go as smoothly as Clint would have hoped.

Smoothly would have been eliminating the target; smoothly would have been remaining neutral; smoothly would have been killing Black Widow—Natalia Romanova.

But Clint's been distracted.

The first time, it's a shock of red hair, so bright and energetic that Clint doesn't even register that she's already gone. He'd studied her for months in preparation for this mission, and while there'd been the occasional snapshot, cameras did _not _do Black Widow's hair justice.

The second time, Clint becomes mesmerized by Romanova's eyes—like sparkling emeralds, and full of life—before he realizes that she's staring _right at him _and then she's taking a shot at him while ducking into an alleyway and out of his sight.

The third time (_third time's always the charm_, Clint likes to say), is also the last time, because Clint—with a bullet in one arm, a split lip, a black eye, and bruises covering his body—is successful in convincing _the _Black Widow to leave her old life, to start over—rebuild herself.

Back in his shitty motel room (because Coulson's angry at Clint for not following through with his orders and won't pick them up until morning), Clint finally gets a good, long look at Natalia Romanova—no, Natasha Romanoff, is what she's told him to call her.

Underneath her smooth, porcelain exterior, one that's been professionally trained in deceit, Natasha Romanoff is a scared little girl, desperate to escape her past, but too broken to pull it off. Clint's the first light she's seen in _ages_.

They're sitting on his bed as he dresses her wounds—a gash across her forehead from one of his arrows, cuts littering her palms and knees—when she touches him, puts a warm hand on his thigh.

Clint's eyes slide shut and he's breathing harshly through his nose. He can feel her sliding closer, feel the heat radiating from her body.

He'll admit, he's thought about it because, for God's sake, he's only human. No one in their right mind could lay their eyes on Natasha and _not _let their mind wander into the gutter.

But, that's not what he's here for. That's not why he saved her. So he grabs her wrist, stops it from moving any further and puts some distance between them.

There's genuine confusion on her face when he refuses her advances, because no man has _ever _said no. Her defenses are back up when she lets out a sharp bark of laughter, asking him if he's gay.

"No," he replies calmly, "but I'm not a debt that you can repay with sex. I'm not a debt, you don't owe me anything."

She's stopped laughing.

"That's not how the world works."

Clint doesn't reply, gets up, turns off the light, and lets her remain on his bed, while he lies down on the floor.

Natasha falls back onto the mattress, glancing at Clint. She sees him smirk at her, his teeth glinting in the moonlight that filters through the curtains.

"But you know," he winks, "if you ever get the urge to do _that_, when you're not feeling like you're paying a debt, mind you, you know where to find me now."

Natasha scoffs, rolling over and shutting her eyes.

_What a stupid man_, she thinks.

It's the first and last time Clint ever propositions her...until about a month later when, back at SHIELD headquarters, Clint awakes to a moaning Natasha with her lush lips wrapped around his cock.

* * *

_A/N: So, I've decided to write a chaptered fic about Clint and Natasha, although I guess it's more of a series of short fics strung together. Each one is inspired by the graphics illustrated by Lettiebobettie from Tumblr, so there'll be eight chapters total. I'll try to update as often as possible, and seeing as I still have a few more weeks before school starts, I think I can manage! And I promise I won't abandon this. :-) Also, there's no correlation between the content and the title, I just couldn't think of anything ahah, so the title is subject to change. Thanks so much for reading and reviews are always appreciated!_

_Graphics by Lettie: /post/24790338444/you-know-nat-has-naturally-red-hair-and-she (copy and paste after lettiebobettie . tumblr .com)_

_Disclaimer: All characters belong to Marvel and credit also goes to Lettie for letting me write fics based on her illustrations._


	2. Księżniczka

"Księżniczka," he says to her, and she can't help but be annoyed because Clint's called her something in a language she knows but can't quite recall. It's on the tip of her tongue, but she has no idea what he's said, although she's heard it before.

She pouts and punches him in the arm, hard enough to bruise.

He laughs.

"Princess," he says, and continues to chuckle.

She glares daggers at him.

"_You're _the one who's been complaining about the temperature this whole time," she replies haughtily, nose in the air.

"Are you too cold? Would you like me to get you a nice woolen blanket and build you a fire?" Her voice is teasing.

He frowns at this, scandalized, and turns to look at her.

"It's not _my_ fault I wasn't born with ice in my blood. It's been snowing for hours and it's fucking cold—even _you _have to admit that."

She breaks out into a smile, a genuine smile, warm enough to make his blood heat up. They've been sitting on this mountain, waiting and waiting and waiting, and at this point they've both felt it safe to assume that their mark has frozen due to the fucking _freezing _temperature.

Natasha can see Clint shivering—he's always preferred missions in warmer climates—and scoots closer, her arm brushing his.

He turns to her again, grabbing one of her hands and tugging, Natasha landing in his lap.

She sighs at the contact—the warmth that spreads through her—and wraps her arms around Clint's neck, twisting to straddle his thighs, as his own arms wind around her waist and he rests his forehead against hers.

He smirks, waggling his eyebrows suggestively, giving up on their mission.

"I know how we can keep ourselves warm."

Natasha pushes him back into the snow, her lips burning into his.

* * *

_A/N: I was going to wait about a week to post this, idk why, I guess to make my updating seem consistent and to build suspense (?), but I had such a good day today and I had this already written (it just needed to be edited), and I've gotten such **lovely **feedback from you all, which includes favorite, follows, and reviews (thank you to **mira**, **love4lots**, and **knyte** for said reviews!), so I decided to upload it tonight. I hope you enjoyed and I apologize if you deem it too short, ahah. I promise there will be smut in upcoming chapters! Also, if you haven't yet, **go check out the graphics I'm basing these fics off of** (link is in Chapter 1)**!**_

_If you didn't get it, **k****siężniczka**_ _is Polish for_ _**princess**._

_Disclaimer: All characters belong to Marvel and credit also goes to Lettie for letting me write fics based on her illustrations._


	3. The Things I Want To Say The Most

___My chest is never good at saying the things I want to say the most, _  
_I hope I can find the words, someday, so that I can give them to you. - Unknown_

* * *

She's waiting, staring blankly at the wall across from her, trying to decipher the thoughts that are racing through her mind. The hand that she's gripping is warm and the fingers twitch every so often, but her hand remains ice cold, frozen, mimicking her mood, just like the rain that's slamming against the windowpane.

This isn't what was supposed to happen; Clint should be the one holding her hand as she balances precariously on the line between life and death.

He took a bullet meant for her and now all she can do is sit here and wait, hope, maybe even pray (to a deity she doesn't even believe in).

Natasha's angry, white hot with rage, because she doesn't care that they're partners—she was the target, yet he'd become the victim. He had no right to come between her and fate.

When she thinks about it, though, _really _thinks, she knows she'd have done the same, because dammit, they're partners. But he still shouldn't have done it—put himself at such risk.

They've been fucking for a year and a half now, and she thinks, no—knows, that even if they hadn't been, even if their relationship had remained platonic, she _still _would have taken a bullet for him.

She's thought about leaving; thought about walking out of this room, this hospital, and this life—his life. But when Natasha actually shifts, goes to rise from the bed, there's a pain in her chest, a clench, one she hasn't felt since she was a child.

She realizes—or rather—makes the rather horrifying connection that this pain is heartache, but it is not from sadness—it is from love.

_Love is for children_, she chants like a prayer, but it's more reassurance than actual belief.

She's avoided this for a while, but she's seen it coming; in her fondness of the way he calls her księżniczka; in the way she finds herself looking for him; in the way she finds herself looking _at_ him; in the way he makes her smile; and in the way he makes her _feel_.

Clint wants more than what she's offering, she knows, and what terrifies Natasha is that what he wants is there, ready for the taking—his taking. But while her heart may be ready, her brain is not and it's telling her, _don't do it_, and so she'll never tell him, she thinks, at least, not now. Maybe she'll wait until the last possible moment (her last breath or his), or maybe she won't wait at all because she won't have a chance to, not if Clint doesn't wake up.

She sighs, accepts—begrudgingly—that what happened has happened and could probably happen again, in fact, it's inevitable.

Natasha's eyes slide shut and she lets out a breath, one she hadn't realized she's been holding, and she strokes the back of Clint's hand, willing him to _wake up already_, so that they can go back to being partners, best friends, fuck buddies, whatever it is they are.

Clint's hand is clenched in hers—fire and ice—and she's scared because she can feel herself thawing, opening, and it's not anything she was trained for, but Clint's fingers are starting to curl tighter around hers and she looks up at his face and his eyes are open and _he's fine_, she breathes, _everything's going to be fine_.

When they return to headquarters, Natasha will show him what she's afraid to say out loud, with actions (her eyes; her lips; her tongue; her hands; her cunt) rather than words, and maybe, just maybe, that will be enough.

It's more reassurance than actual belief.

* * *

_A/N: So I wrote this one last night and I'm too excited about this thing as a whole so I edited it and then my mom dropped my computer and I hadn't saved it so I cried then re-edited it and now here it is! Thanks to any and all new followers and people who favorited and reviewed (**RonWeasleyismiking, sv4me, **and **knyte**!) In response to **knyte**'squestion (and I'm writing it here so everyone will know), I'm really not one for writing plot, so it's really just going to be a whole bunch of one-shots all tied together. There'll be references to other chapters, but there won't be an actual plot, sorry if this disappoints anyone! I also have the next chapter half written and it'll be the longest one so far (yay!) with smut (yay!), so look forward to that. Thanks for reading and if you haven't yet, **check out Lettie's graphics that these are based off of** (link in Chapter 1)**!**_

_Disclaimer: All characters belong to Marvel and credit also goes to Lettie for letting me write fics based on her illustrations._


	4. Fill My Mouth With Your Name

_A/N: Smut._

_"I want to fill my mouth with your name." - Pablo Neruda_

* * *

Clint's been back for about three minutes when he's confronted with a face full of red.

Natasha doesn't need to say anything as she grabs his wrist, practically dragging him to her tiny, closet sized, SHIELD issued quarters. It's been four months since they've seen each other, with the exception of racy picture messages sent between the two, and both have grown far too impatient to deal with frivolous greetings—too eager for the physical contact they've both been denied for _four fucking months_.

It's been so long since Clint's touched Natasha, felt her smooth, milky skin beneath his calloused fingers, that by the time they make it into her bedroom and she's undoing his jeans, he's got a raging hard on and he's about to come in his pants like some oversexed fifteen year old.

He grabs ahold of Natasha's wrists, stopping her just inches from reaching his cock and closes his eyes, breathing harshly through his nose and going through how to dismantle his bow, step by step.

When he's calmed down a bit, he opens his eyes and meets Natasha's, only to be even more turned on by the dilation of her pupils, all because of the way he's holding her wrists; he remembers, vaguely, that she's mentioned being tied up once or twice, but he's always been wary of said subject because of her past—still a touchy subject, even after four years of partnership.

Natasha runs her tongue along her bottom lip, watching as Clint's eyes follow its path. She pushes him roughly on the bed, before stripping herself, and then Clint.

Clint can't help but hold back a shit eating grin, because Natasha rarely shows when she's impatient but Clint's always been good at reading her and he's pleased to see she's just as eager as he is.

She leans down in front of him, lips just barely brushing against his and murmurs, "Tie me up."

Clint's eyes almost roll back into his head and he—rather unsuccessfully—tries to suppress a groan, biting his lip. Natasha smirks at this and then closes the distance, kissing him languorously, her tongue swiping over his and her teeth nipping at his lips.

She stops all too soon, padding over to her bureau and retrieving a long piece of black velvet cloth. While it looks a bit flimsy, Clint knows that everything Natasha owns is of the best quality. She walks back over, dropping it into his hands and trades places with him, pulling him to his feet and sitting on the bed with her legs crossed and an expectant look on her face.

Clint hesitates, drags his teeth over his bottom lip and looks down at the cloth.

"You sure about this, Tash?" His eyes meet hers and his are brimming with concern. She can tell he's nervous and she knows why, but she daren't think about it in the moment or she's afraid she'll back out.

She shifts, pushing up onto her knees, and takes his face in her hands. She puts every single feeling she has for Clint, has ever had for Clint, into her sparkling green eyes and leans forward so that their lips are just barely touching.

"I trust you," she whispers, and it's everything Clint has wanted to hear Natasha say from the moment they met, or, almost everything, but it's the most he's ever hoped for.

In reality, it's better than some silly profession of love; Natasha trusts no one, but then, oh—she trusts Clint. Her trust runs deeper than lust, deeper than love, and Clint knows now that what they have together is something no one will ever be able to understand or take away, but he'd be lying to himself if he said he wouldn't like to hear her say three other words, as well. Just as reassurance, mind you.

Natasha crawls up the bed, back arched and hips swaying, and Clint smacks her ass, leering as he climbs up behind her and reaches around her to grab her wrists.

Natasha can feel the heat of his arousal pressed against her ass and she pushes her hips back against him. She smiles as she feels his chest shudder and he drops her wrists to hold her waist, stilling her movements.

"Tasha," he groans into her hair. She's wet enough that Clint could slide right in, if only he were to shift his hips _just so_, but he wants to please Natasha, make this last, show her how much he missed her.

She laughs and he continues where he left off, holding her wrists to one of the planks of the wooden headboard, and then ties them with the velvet cloth. He gives a sharp tug as he knots it and Natasha lets out a gasp, grinding back into him.

He pulls back then, satisfied with his work and makes his way down Natasha's body, trailing hot, wet kisses down her neck and back, stopping at her ass to bite into the supple flesh, leaving a red teeth impression on each cheek. _Mine_, he thinks.

Clint lies on his back, sticking his head between Natasha's thighs, and pulls her down so she's straddling his face. She's squirming, his warm breath teasing her, just inches away from where his mouth _should _be, and she groans impatiently, looking down at him with half-lidded eyes.

"Clint," she whimpers. "_Please_."

His breath quickens and he grins lecherously.

"Please, what, Natasha?"

"_Clint_." She's whining.

"Tell me what you want." He's panting now and Natasha can't concentrate on his words because of how close Clint's mouth is to her cunt and he _won't fucking budge_, so Natasha huffs impatiently and thrusts her hips forward, bumping her clit against Clint's nose, and she throws her head back, keening loudly.

Clint chuckles, the harsh bursts of air causing Natasha to grind down on his nose again, and he has to keep his arms wrapped around her thighs to keep her movements to a minimum. He uses the flat of his tongue, licking up her slit, and swirls it around her sensitive nub, before plunging it into her dripping pussy, groaning at the taste of Natasha, the smell of Natasha, he's surrounded by her. _Natasha, Natasha, Natasha_.

And if eating her out hasn't made Clint feel like he's died and gone to heaven, the way she's practically screaming his name over and over and _over _again certainly has.

He thrusts his tongue in and out of her cunt, his nose rubbing deliciously against her clit, and Natasha's practically humping his face; Clint would grin if his mouth weren't already busy.

Clint can tell she's close and her thrusts are becoming more and more frantic, so he flicks his tongue against her clit before sucking it in between his lips, biting down just hard enough that Natasha's sent over the edge in a mixture of pain and pleasure.

Clint can feel her shuddering above him and in her climax, she's squeezed her thighs so tightly around his head that he's starting to find it hard to breath, but he's drowning himself in her and he thinks if he were to die _right now_, he'd die the happiest man in the universe.

When her breathing's slowed and her thighs have loosened, he slips out from under her, pressing opened mouth kisses upon her back, working his way up to her mouth, her neck craning for her lips to meet his.

She's still wet from her orgasm so when Clint positions his cock at her entrance, he slips right in, his hips pushing into Natasha's ass.

She groans into his mouth at the feel of him filling her and she feels so complete with him—so perfect. They don't go for a slow, steady rhythm, because that's not them. They're Clint and Natasha—hard, and rough around the edges, so that's exactly how they fuck.

There's a place on the back of Natasha's neck that Clint loves to touch, rub, grip, whatever he's in the mood for, and right now he grips it, just for a moment, and he can feel Natasha's moan reverberate through her back, before he slides his hand up into her hair and curls it into a fist. He leans over her as he tugs her hair back, revealing the pale column of her neck, and bites down, right above her collarbone, leaving a mark—his mark. When he leans back to look at his handiwork, he can see the indentation of his teeth, the skin flushed pink, and Natasha's breathing is heavy.

Natasha hates not being able to use her hands; hates not being able to touch Clint, hold Clint, _feel_ Clint, and whines of frustration are beginning to mix with her moaning and panting. If she weren't so fucking turned on by being restrained by Clint, she thinks she'd never have suggested it.

His hand is still tangled in her hair and she's pushing back against him with as much strength as her position allows, begging for him to go _harder, Clint, fuck me harder_, so Clint complies, hand leaving her hair, and both coming to grip her hips, so hard Natasha hisses at the pain and almost comes.

Her fingers itch to feel him; his skin, his hair, his ridges and contours, and she lets out another frustrated whine, pulling against the cloth binding her to the bed, even as she continues to writhe against Clint.

He senses her aggravation and slows his movements, leaning forward to flatten his chest against her back.

"What do you want, Tasha?" He purrs, his breath tickling her ear.

"You," she sobs. "I want to touch you. I _need _to touch you, please."

He releases her then, and her arms twine around his neck, pulling his head forward for a searing kiss, her back flush against his front. Her wrists are red and chafed from the cloth but she finds she doesn't quite mind because they're from Clint and she likes the bruises that are already starting to bloom across the tender skin of her wrists.

Her fingers grasp at his hair, too short for her to actually get a hold of it, and her nails knead into his scalp as they swallow each other's moans.

One of Clint's hands travels across the smooth planes of Natasha's stomach, his hand coming up to one of her breasts and his fingers pulling roughly at her nipples, while the other skitters over her hip and dips between her thighs, rubbing circles over and over again on her clit. Clint can feel Natasha beginning to shake and her groans and whines and whimpers are getting louder—breathier. Her lips break away from his to plead silently, mouthing his name, jaw dropping, eyelids fluttering, long lashes kissing her cheeks.

They're wrapped together, so close Clint can barely tell where he ends and Natasha begins. He loves her and he loves _this_—being with her, on her, _in_ her—but he's too afraid to tell her, too afraid to lose her, so he does the best he can, gives her everything, gives himself to her.

She's tightening around him, her muscles clenching, and the pressure in his spine is becoming almost unbearable. Clint knows she's just as close as he is, teetering on the edge, the precipice, so he bites down on the soft flesh of her neck, hard enough to be on just the right side of painful, and she tumbles into the abyss, shattering, coming undone, Clint swallowing the unremitting tumble of his name off her lips.

Natasha's orgasm triggers Clint's as her cunt pulses around his cock, his hips slamming into hers one final, bruising time, as he spills into her. Their bodies spasm together and Natasha's hands have dropped to reach around Clint, her fingernails digging into his ass, holding their bottom halves together.

As their breathing returns to normal, Clint drops his lips to hers once more, their kiss sweet and slow, tongues exploring and wrestling and claiming. Clint can _never _get enough of Natasha's kisses, passionate and thorough, her perfect, soft lips a godsend.

"I love you," she breathes against his lips, and then freezes, gasps in horror because those three words just slipped through her lips.

She squeezes her eyes shut, curls into herself, gets off the bed and begins to grab for her clothes. She's blushing and embarrassed, humiliated, a rare feeling for Natasha Romanoff. Hadn't telling him she trusts him been enough? This wasn't supposed to happen—she'd never meant to say it.

But then Clint's grabbing her hands, pulling her back onto the bed.

"Say it again," he says gruffly.

Natasha doesn't hear him.

He grabs her hair, pulls it so that her neck is bared and she hisses in pain, but it's a delicious pain.

"Say it _again_," he hisses into her ear, teeth clenched and stubble rubbing her skin raw.

"I love you," she whispers.

"Louder." His tone is demanding, harsh, but he's desperate.

"I love you!" She's sobbing, trembling.

"I love you, I love you, I love you." It's like a mantra.

Natasha lifts her eyes up to Clint's, and when they meet there's so much feeling in his, it's like she's been burned. Her words are reflected in his eyes, so intense he doesn't need to say them.

His lips slam into hers, their teeth clicking, and tongues battling for dominance.

They fuck again, sweaty and rough, but this time it's not just fucking, there's emotion, so raw it hurts, but they've got one another to put their pieces back together.

* * *

_A/N: So this one took longer, obviously, but here's the smut I promised and I'm like, 90% sure there's gonna be more. c: Thank you **so **much for all new favorites, follows, and reviews (**mira, Cloud99, lknights91**)! If you haven't yet, __ **check out Lettie's graphics that these are based off of** (link in Chapter 1)**! **Thank you so, so, so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed and reviews are always appreciated! :-)_

_____Disclaimer: All characters belong to Marvel and credit also goes to Lettie for letting me write fics based on her illustrations._


	5. Candlelight

Natasha's gorgeous, anyone with eyes can see that, but there's something about Natasha and candlelight that always sends shivers down Clint's spine.

It's eerie, her beauty. She's ethereal, and the way candlelight dances across her face and hair and body is so appealing to Clint. It makes her hair glow and her eyes sparkle and watching Natasha work by candlelight is almost as arousing as having sex with her by candlelight.

Which is why, in a chapel in Brazil, Clint almost gets shot in the face because he's so distracted by Natasha. It doesn't help that he's also a little drunk.

They'd been in Brazil for a week to take a break, a vacation, if you will. Tonight, they'd gone to a nice dinner, gotten all dressed up, and if it seemed like Clint was drinking his wine a bit faster than normal, neither of them said anything (although she did kick him in the shin for overtly staring at her breasts for too long).

Following dinner, they'd decided to go for a walk in the moonlight, the evening too gorgeous to pass up. They hadn't gone into the chapel for any _specific_ reason (neither of them are ready for _that_), however Natasha had gotten an uneasy feeling, like they were being watched, so she'd dragged him into the chapel and they'd taken out their guns—where Natasha had kept hers was an absolute mystery to Clint—and gone to hide behind some columns.

Currently, Natasha's fighting four guys at once, and while neither of them knows for sure, they're pretty confident that these men are lackeys of their previous mission target.

Clint is up in the rafters, because although he doesn't have his bow, he's still a better shot from a distance, so he's reverted back to sniper mode, taking out the men one by one, but there are still at least six of them that he can't see, shooting at him from various places around the chapel, and he keeps glancing at Natasha, admiring the way she moves and fights, a beautiful blend of death and grace.

Clint can't help it if he gets turned on watching her, even as blood drips from her fingers and spatters across her cheeks.

The candlelight flickers across her body, dancing around her hair and caressing her curves. Clint almost thinks he should be jealous.

But then, his admiration is interrupted as a bullet drives itself straight through his arm and he's been shot before, but the pain never gets easier to bear. He loses his balance, tumbling off the beam he's been perched on, and his hand darts out, grabbing for anything, and he manages to get a hold of the wood for a second, before his fingers slip and he falls to the floor, instinctually rolling as he makes contact, and saving his self from any more serious damage.

Lifting his head to gather his surroundings, Clint finds himself face to face with the barrel of a gun, and while his expression remains neutral, as it's been trained to do in situations such as this, his palms have begun to sweat and his pulse is racing.

The man on the other end of the gun sneers at Clint, his finger twitching to pull the trigger, and suddenly Clint's got a face full of red; the man's throat is slit, his eyes wide, and he drops to the ground, blood gurgling out of the gash across his throat.

Before Clint stands Natasha, covered from head to toe in blood, bright red and dripping. Clint thinks she's the most beautiful creature on earth with her hair, red like the blood that stains her dress, barely a curl out of place, her eyes radiant, burning, energy crackling within them, and her chest heaving, ruby red lips parted, before she's kissing him, backing him up against a nearby column, all the while dropping the last man as he tries to come up behind them, her mouth never leaving Clint's.

He fucks her up against the smooth marble, the stone cool on her cheek. Adrenaline still rushes through their veins and they stop to fuck again on the way back to their hotel, in the shadows of an empty shop front.

When they get back to their room, Natasha tends to Clint's wounds, and he does the same and then he screws her into the mattress, her lips pressed against his ear telling him her fears, how she'd thought he'd be killed, how he can never leave her, ever. He breathes hard against her neck, makes promises he knows he might not be able to keep, but she knows it too, and she still wants to hear them. Hear how much he loves her, how he'll never leave her, how he's hers for all eternity.

They realize now, have always known deep down, how completely fucked they are, how deep they've gotten into this situation, made even worse by the fact that neither of them care enough to stop because they love each other and they have each other now, so would should they give that up?

* * *

_A/N: Well, we're past the halfway point and I'm actually feeling kind of sad, but no worries because I have about a million plot bunnies just waiting to be used for more Clintasha fics c: I don't think I can thank you guys enough for the reviews I've received and trust me when I say they mean the world to me. Thank you, thank you, thank you for your favorites, follows, and reviews (**K****ennaWynters, mira, Ann**), they all keep me motivated to continue writing because they let me know that people are actually reading and enjoying. If you haven't yet, __**go check out the graphics I'm basing these fics off of** (link is in Chapter 1)**! **Thanks so much, again, for reading and reviews are always greatly appreciated! :-)_

_____Disclaimer: All characters belong to Marvel and credit also goes to Lettie for letting me write fics based on her illustrations._


	6. Cling To Your Body

_I would kill to be your clothes; cling to your body and hang from your bones. - Wolf / Now, Now_

* * *

Natasha's Manhattan apartment would be beautiful and pristine, with its white walls and carpets, sleek black furniture, and floor-to-ceiling windows, if it weren't for Clint. It's been about two weeks since she's given him a key to her apartment—not that it's mattered because he always manages to get in through her tightly sealed windows—and his clothes are already strewn across the flat; shirts haphazardly flung across the furniture, and jeans and boxers litter the floor.

When Clint's away on long missions, Natasha's found she likes to wear his shirts around the apartment. She loves the way they smell like him—his musky, masculine scent—and if she squeezes her eyes shut hard enough, it _almost_ feels as if she's wrapped in his arms—in _him_.

Almost.

It's been almost a week since Clint's last text and Natasha's feeling lonely and a little bit down, so she grabs one of his button downs as she heads to her room, flopping back onto her bed, the shirt wrapped around her. She breathes in his smell and wishes he were here because she misses him and it's been a while since she's had any _fun_.

The material of the shirt is coarse against her porcelain skin, a close, but ineffective resemblance to Clint's calloused hands, but she's getting desperate and there's tension coiling in her body that needs to be released and her breath catches in her throat as the rough fabric brushes against her breasts and her nipples stiffen. She runs her fingertips lightly up and down her abdomen, from beneath her navel to her cleavage, and she shivers, imagining they're Clint's gentle touches and not her own.

Natasha brings both hands up to palm her breasts, her hands kneading the tender flesh and fingers pulling at her sensitive nipples. Usually, Clint's pretty rough and it makes Natasha's eyes roll into her head and her brain melt, the hand shaped bruises on delicate flesh serving as a pleasant reminder, but at the moment, Natasha's hands are too soft, too gentle, and she lets out a groan of frustration, her hands falling onto the mattress with a _thump_.

She sighs, her eyes sliding shut, and she thinks back, doesn't have to dig very far because what she's looking for has been seared across her brain and burned into the backs of her eyelids. Bruised wrists, black velvet, a satin tongue, and utterances of love. Natasha remembers her skin rubbed red and raw, remembers the abrasiveness of Clint's stubble, the bite of his fingers on her hips.

Her breathing's getting heavier as her hands travel over her stomach and dip between her legs, massaging her inner thighs before she grazes her mound with one of her palms. She imagines his husky voice, low and gravely, and the way his tone reverts back to that southern drawl, just a bit; she feels the heat as it pools in her core and she's starting to pant. She can practically hear him, whispering in her ear all the dirty things he wants to do to her, calling her _księżniczka__, _telling her he loves her, reminding her that she's _his, all his_. If she were wearing panties, they'd be utterly destroyed.

Natasha sucks her bottom lip between her teeth, the ivory bright against her lips as they indent the delicate skin. A moan makes its way up her throat and slithers out of her mouth as her hands work between her thighs, one tracing her slit while the other rubs circles around her clit.

When she dips two of her fingers into her dripping pussy, it's like sweet relief, but not quite. Her fingers aren't as wide as Clint's, and they're certainly not as long, and while she can get herself off, it's not _really _the same, but she's worked herself this far, the tension in her abdomen coiling and spreading and burning, and so she adds a third finger, her breath coming out in something between a whimper and a groan, as she stretches herself, and it gets her a little closer to what she craves—a little closer to the edge.

Her heels are pressing into the mattress, her knees bent, and her back arching, grinding her cunt harder into her hands, when Natasha hears a creak coming from right outside her room and her gaze shoots to the door and there's Clint gawking at her from the doorway before his lips curl up into a smirk and he takes a step into the room, hand already unbuttoning his jeans.

"Stop," Natasha gasps, fingers still pumping in and out of her pussy. "What are you doing here?"

Clint's voice is low and raspy when he replies, his eyes tracking her every movement.

"We finished the mission early and I wanted to surprise you."

His hand still lingers over his crotch. He starts to step forward again.

"No," she says quickly, harshly. "I want to watch you."

Natasha sees as Clint sucks in a breath and his pulse starts to flutter in his neck. He remains in the doorway, but his hands shoot for his belt, and he pushes his jeans down to his knees, steps out of them so quickly he almost trips, and Natasha would laugh if she wasn't so fucking close to getting herself off.

She slows her pace down so that Clint can catch up, because she wants to come at the same time he does, and she watches as he takes his length in his hand and starts to rub, her lip clamped between her pearly whites, and one hand massaging a breast while the other continues to torment her sensitive clit.

Clint's hand begins to move a bit faster and his grip tightens just the slightest as Natasha lets her knees fall outwards, spreading herself wide for him to see as her fingers thrust in and out of her cunt. Natasha's getting close and her chest is heaving as she sobs Clint's name, her fingers a blur as they dance over her clit and dip into her sex, her head thrown back and her hips bucking off the bed.

He drinks up the view like a man who's been stranded in the desert for a year. His jaw is clenched, teeth gritted, and he's breathing harshly through his nose as he tells Natasha what he'd like to do to her, what he's fantasized about during his absence. The whimpers Natasha's emitting have Clint fucking his hand as hard as he can, and the way she wails his name when she comes sends Clint over the edge because he's managed to make her scream his name before he's even touched her.

He catches his cum in his hand as it comes out in hot, sticky spurts, before it can drip onto the floor because if it's one thing Natasha hates, it's bodily fluids staining her glossy floors.

His body sags and he stumbles over to the bed, his muscles still trembling and the heat still seeping through his veins. He collapses on top of Natasha's body, bracing his weight on his forearms as he presses his lips to hers for a blood boiling kiss, his tongue sucking at hers and tickling the roof of her mouth.

Natasha wraps her arms around his torso and pulls his body fully onto hers, reveling in the comforting weight, the way it feels like he could crush her, smother her with his body, and she would die happily.

* * *

_A/N: I apologize for the wait! I had a bit of writer's block and then I wrote "It Might Have Been" and moved into college, and classes started today and I'm already swamped in work but I'm determined to finish this fic and I'm not going to go on hiatus, but the time in between the next couple of updates might be a little over a week. But there are only two chapters left! Thank you so much to all new followers, favorites, and reviews (**KennaWynters **and **mira**)! New reviews are always appreciated and __if you haven't yet, **check out Lettie's graphics that these are based off of** (link in Chapter 1)**! **Thanks again!_

_____Disclaimer: All characters belong to Marvel and credit also goes to Lettie for letting me write fics based on her illustrations._


	7. тоска

_A/N: Don't fret, it's not a death fic. See end notes for the meaning of "__тоска (Toska)"._

* * *

Natasha has good days and bad days, and today is a bad day. One of those days where there's a stinging behind her eyes and she doesn't know why.

She doesn't feel like sparring—not even with Clint, and she misses the hurt that flashes in his eyes when she refuses his invitation—and she doesn't feel like eating because she's got that feeling in the pit of her stomach, like it's filled with darkness and sorrow and she's frustrated because she can't figure out what the _fuck _is wrong with her.

She remembers back to yesterday, last week, last month, every moment tinged with Clint; his scent, his voice, the feel of his rough hands gliding over her skin, and while warmth rushes through her at the thought of him, the pit deepens.

There are bags under her eyes and she can't manage a smile, not even a reassuring one when Pepper gives her that look, the one that's filled to the brim with concern. Natasha can't take the feeling of Pepper's eyes constantly on her and her body is tired, dragging and sluggish—even breathing is laborious—so she hides in her room, locks the door and sinks onto her bed, her eyes sliding shut and the rise and fall of her chest slowing.

_Empty_, she thinks, that's how she feels, and she hates that she feels this way because she doesn't usually, but it's been happening so often—since Clint, she realizes. Natasha lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding and she can't decide if it's a breath of relief or..

A tear escapes, leaving a glistening trail as it rolls down her cheek, and then Clint is there and he's kissing it away, his lips soft as they brush across her skin.

Her eyes open and he's leaning over her, lifting her head, sliding behind her so that it rests against his thigh. She stares up at him, his face silhouetted by the sunlight piercing through her curtains and she can't help that she's enamored by Clint and everything that he is.

His fingers card through her curls, starting from her scalp, all the way down to the tips of her silky, red tendrils. He's humming a song, one that she recognizes but can't think of in the moment, and the feeling in her stomach starts to ebb, and she realizes Clint is her light.

Her love.

She loves Clint and she remembers a word from her childhood, from before the Red Room. It's a whisper in her head, barely there and already slipping from her grasp, so she holds on tight and the words tumble out of her mouth, a breath from her lips.

_тоска_.

There's a pause, Clint's throaty melody still hanging in the air. Their eyes meet and his lips curl up into a heart-stopping smile, and the rest of Natasha's darkness flees—light prevails.

She's known for a while now, since Brazil, since the black velvet, since księżniczka, since the third time. Known that she's in love with Clint, but she'd always been so reluctant to admit it to herself. She's even told him, only in the most intimate of moments. And, of course she's meant them, her words and feelings, but this one is different and this is where the darkness comes into play—the sadness.

It's not a despondent feeling, she doesn't want to kill herself, but her heart hangs heavy even while her chest feels empty. She's tired and in love, but she's not tired of _being_ in love. She's tired because of it.

There's an ache in her heart that never really goes away and it's Clint, she realizes, who is the cause of her pain, but it's not a bad one. Her heart is weary because it's constantly longing for something she already has, but Clint is there, she knows, always has been and always will be, and the weight is lifted and Natasha can feel the light—her light—Clint. Natasha is in love and it's because of her love for Clint that she feels this way; there's anguish and yearning and she can't be happy until she knows that they're forever.

She doesn't say any of this, refuses to say it, but she knows she doesn't have to because Clint feels the same way—_has _felt the same way, since before the third time. Clint is patient, it's part of his job, and he's waited for Natasha to realize this for years.

_тоска_.

When they fuck, it's rough, all teeth and nails. Burns and bruises and scratches. This time, they're gentle, a bit too gentle for their liking, but it helps. Helps Natasha realize, helps it sink in. When they're finished, laying alongside each other, flesh on flesh, gasps devouring the silence and hands interlocked, Natasha knows what she wants to do and knows that Clint will be more than willing.

She grabs one of his arrows and uses a lighter to sanitize it, the metal glowing red as the flame flickers over it. When it cools, Natasha straddles Clint and she sits there, looking down at him, moonlight pooling around his head and his eyes clouded over with love and lust. She carves _мой_ above his heart, the flesh paling and then flushing as the blood wells up on the surface. The letters are small and neat, beautiful in their meaning and aesthetics. She licks the blood away and leaves a trail of kisses down Clint's sun-kissed abdomen, apologies for the pain and promises for the future, and then she's taking him into her mouth, nails raking across his thighs, and he's left in a heaving, trembling pile when she's done.

When it's Clint's turn, he rolls them over, his superior weight a comfort to Natasha, and he grabs her deceivingly delicate wrists in his hands, squeezing just enough to leave bruises because he knows she loves them. He chooses her inner thigh, just a few inches below her sex, which he drags his tongue over before taking a hold of her thigh. He admires her porcelain skin, its smoothness and perfection. When he drags the sharp metal across her flesh, there's a small gasp, an intake of breath, her lips parted just slightly. He writes _księżniczka_ in her tender skin and it feels like it's being burned into her—her heart, her soul.

She knows now, knows what the pain is. It's love and trust and everything else that they share between them.

She's hopelessly in love with Clint—too far gone and there's no way she could have ever prevented it.

* * *

_A/N: Toska [__тоска]_ is a Russian word; as explained by Vladimir Nabokov, "No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom.

_Edit: I forgot to write the meanings of a few words! "мой__" means "mine" and "__księżniczka" is from chapter 2 and it's the Polish word for "princess"._

_____Also, thank you to nadia for correcting my use of Russian! :-)_

_I'm SO sorry for how long it took me to update but here you go! Only one more chapter left! Thank you so much for all the reviews and follows and favorites, they've really helped motivate me to write more (when I find the time, ahah). I hope you enjoyed this new installment and reviews are always appreciated! If you haven't yet, check out the graphics by Lettie that I've been using as inspiration to write this fic; the link is in Chapter 1! :-)_

_Disclaimer: All characters belong to Marvel and credit also goes to Lettie for letting me write fics based on her illustrations._


	8. Heaven Is A Place On Earth With You

_It's you, it's you, it's all for you_

_Everything I do_

_I tell you all the time_

_Heaven is a place on earth with you._

_- Video Games / Lana Del Rey_

* * *

The frail glass of the champagne flute cracks as his grip tightens and he has to set it down on the table beside him before it shatters between his fingers.

Natasha's dancing with Banner and even though Clint knows she's his—his księżniczka—he can't help the flood of jealousy creeping through his veins and settling in the pit of his stomach. It's an unpleasant feeling, dark and sinister, and Clint wishes he could stop it because he knows he shouldn't feel it, but he does.

He watches as Bruce's hand slides just a tad too low, and he wants to scream when Natasha does nothing but turn her chin slightly to catch his eye. Hers have got that teasing glint, sparkling bright and mischievous. She's playing a game, he knows, making him jealous and trying to get him all riled up because she loves possessive sex with him almost as much as she loves him. Natasha does it pretty often, but it's always been with marks and something about the fact that this is _Bruce_ bothers Clint. It's a mixture of that, the way his jealousy blurs his vision, and the look of adoration and something else on the man's face that causes Clint to leave the ballroom, the hinges of the door protesting loudly at his unnecessary roughness.

* * *

The sweet scent of cool cinnamon fills Clint's nostrils, almost impedes his other senses, and he can tell it's her immediately because he knows her smell, her taste, her _feel_. And, of course she's found him wandering in a second floor corridor because the spider always knows where her hawk is.

She's got his back pressed against the wall before he can grab her, his arms pinned to his sides, and he could easily break out of the hold, but he decides against it, resting the back of his head on the wall and sighing.

"Leaving already?" She purs in his ear. Her scent is overwhelming.

He can feel her soft, wet tongue as she traces the shell of his ear with its tip, waiting for his response, but he's had enough practice now that he's able to suppress the shiver that follows and he responds in a dull voice.

"I got bored."

Natasha pulls back to look him in the eye, the glint in hers still present and her bright red lips curl slightly at the corners.

"Were you jealous?" She simpers, her eyes blinking innocently.

He's uncertain, his silence too long, and the sparkle disappears and her mouth turns down in a frown, her eyebrows furrowing.

"Clint..." Her voice is gentle.

"Natasha, I—"

"Stop," she whispers as she places her mouth on his in a gentle, almost chaste kiss, yet it's still filled with passion and Clint will never get sick of kissing Natasha.

"You know I love you, right?" She murmurs against his lips, their noses brushing.

He hesitates, closes his eyes and takes a breath through his nose, and then another, but he's having some trouble because his chest feels heavy and it's like the oxygen isn't making it to his lungs.

"Yes," he tries.

Natasha's silky palms come up to caress his face and he opens his eyes to meet hers; it's like coming up for air.

"Yes," Clint repeats, more confidently this time.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"I didn't realize dancing with Banner would upset you so much, but you should have more faith in me." She kisses his forehead, his eyelids, his cheeks, his nose, his jawline between each word, every kiss an apology.

Clint can hear faint traces of hurt in her voice and he feels like an asshole when she presses her lips to his again in a searing kiss, all of her feelings conveyed in one touch.

He breaks away, resting his forehead against hers.

"No, I'm sorry I'm being an insecure prick."

Natasha laughs and the sound makes Clint's heart soar.

"Don't be."

She's purring again.

"Let _me_ make it up to _you_."

Before kissing him again, she hitches her leg around his waist, their bodies melding together, and she presses his hand to the inside of her left thigh.

He runs his calloused fingertips of her velvety skin and revels in the tremble that reverberates through Natasha as he caresses her. Clint can feel the faint lines of the letters scrawled across her flesh and he gets dizzy as blood rushes to his cock.

Natasha presses her pelvis into his sending waves of pleasure through them both, and Clint can feel the way her lips curve against his neck when he groans.

"_Your_ księżniczka," she whispers, her breath hot and moist on his neck.

Her hands travel down the front of his suit and she marvels at how well it fits his build, the way wet cloth clings.

The tips of her fingers are gentle as they hook into the waistband of his trousers and they're suddenly around his knees with Natasha on hers, smirking up at him, one brow arched.

"No underwear—really?"

The light dances in her eyes.

Clint's voice is low, rumbling through his chest when he replies, "Didn't think they'd be of much use."

She rewards him with her mouth, taking him in until she can feel him at the back of her throat and then she swallows and Clint sees stars.

She begins to hum as she travels back up his shaft, her tongue dancing around him, caressing him.

Clint's trying not to make any noise but he's always been vocal when it comes to Natasha and he shouts her name when she flicks her tongue against his tip.

He's got one hand clenched in a fist, the fingernails digging into his palm to keep himself sane and the other is lost in her hair, fingers massaging her scalp encouragingly. It feels as if he's being devoured and he wouldn't have it any other way.

The pressure in his spine is building and his thighs are beginning to tremble as he tries to keep upright, but it's difficult when Natasha does _that_ with her tongue.

Clint can feel his balls tightening and he lets out a desperate warning, his words a gasp.

"_Tasha_."

She pulls away suddenly, a large grin plastered across her face. She's got his cock in her hand and she's stroking it slowly.

"Dance with me."

It's her only request.

"_Tasha__," _he whines, and he's met with another raised eyebrow.

"You know I don't dance."

He's always the one watching her dance and he's content with that.

"Please."

He stares down at her as she kneels on the floor, her lips swollen and red, her cheeks flushed, and her hand still working his cock. His księżniczka.

He sighs.

"One dance."

The grin turns into a smile, a genuine one filled with so much joy that Clint would never say no again if it meant so much to Natasha. It's not as if he hasn't seen that smile before, but he adds it to his list of things that make Natasha happy because this is what he lives for.

* * *

There are more people in the ballroom when they return and they try to be conspicuous, but Natasha's hair is disheveled and Clint can't stop smirking every time he sees her knees.

Splotches of purple and blue are blooming across her porcelain skin and he can't help but be joyful at the looks she keeps getting, and maybe just a bit possessive. He can see the leers of some of the other SHIELD agents, and he wraps his arm around her shoulders, marking his territory.

They're a force to reckon with, the perfect duo. The spider and the hawk. And when Natasha does as he does, wrapping her arm around his waist with a certain glint in her eyes, people know not to approach them.

Natasha pretends not to notice Clint's constant fidgeting, the way he adjusts his trousers every few minutes to avoid gawking, but she can't help the feral grin that spreads across her face.

Their bodies sway together, a beautiful mixture of intimacy and grace. They're good together—no, _great_—and everyone in the room can see it.

Clint's breathing is becoming labored and Natasha can feel him through their clothes, hard and burning, and desire courses through her veins, but she keeps herself in check and merely smiles into his collar.

The song the orchestra is playing creates a nostalgic feeling in Natasha, and at this moment in her life, she's the most content and satisfied she's ever been. And it's because of Clint.

She thinks, _heaven is a place on earth with you_.

Clint feels like home—_is _home—and she never wants to spend another second without him, so she tells him and it's them against the world.

* * *

As they exit the building, Natasha slips her hand into Clint's, their fingers interlocking, and Clint knows everything is right in the world.

They've got each other and they always will, and it feels like heaven.

_Fin._

* * *

_A/N: __I apologize profusely for how long you all have been waiting for this to be completed, and the only excuse that I have is school-which, mind you, is a pretty darn good excuse, being a biology major! That aside, I've finally finished my first chaptered fic and I'm honestly incredibly satisfied with how it turned out. I'd just like to thank all of you for sticking around so long and for the support you've given me in writing and completing this story. Your reviews, follows, and favorites really do mean the world to me. I'd also like to thank **Lettiebobettie **from Tumblr who gave me permission to write this based on her Clintasha graphics. If you haven't yet, __check out Lettie's graphics linked in Chapter 1!Again, thank you all **so **much.  
_

_Disclaimer: All characters belong to Marvel and credit also goes to Lettie for letting me write fics based on her illustrations._


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